Stuck on Rewind
by callmerachel
Summary: hotch/reader - the team goes to the bar, where the reader drinks too much, so hotch offers to take her home. the reader's PTSD is flared up from her drinking, leaving hotch to help her with her pain. so H/C it hurts. also trigger warnings for suicidal ideation and PTSD. title is from placebo's "follow the cops back home."
author's note: i've been captivated by these character/reader fanfics i've seen on tumblr so i thought i'd try my hand at one! it's hotch x reader, and the reader is new on the BAU team and has a crush on hotch. they're out with the team at a bar and having a great time. with more alcohol, however, comes reader's hidden-away PTSD, a secret to the team. hotch helps her home because she drinks too much and helps her and it's so H/C it's gross. it's probably trash but let me know what you think!

—

"Penelope! I can't take another shot!"

You were out with the BAU team at the local haunt, it being a Friday night. It was a nice bar, with lots of mahogany and dimmed lights. Nothing like the college bars you used to haunt. And yet… Garcia had been ordering shots throughout the night. It didn't feel right, but you couldn't turn down her bright smile.

"Oh Y/N, you have to! I already bought it!" She grinned at you, pushing the other shots to Derek and Emily.

"It's rude not to take something someone has already bought for you," Prentiss said, smirking in your direction. Morgan chuckled, a grin lighting up his face.

"Fine, fine. Let's toast then." You lifted your small glass up. "To cases not taking us away on a Friday night!" The four glasses clinked. You took the shot in two gulps, the liquor making your nose burn.

"Don't jinx it." Rossi was behind you, smirking with an empty glass. 'What, you can't invite the old man to the fun?"

You laughed. "Oh no, Rossi! You can get a shot, too!" You had consumed a few glasses of wine prior to the shots, easing your nerves at being out with the team. You had been out a few times before, but you were still relatively new to the team. You didn't want anyone on the team to catch on to your social anxiety; you hid it pretty well with a cocky persona."Penelope, don't worry, I can get this one."

A soft, deep chuckle reverberated behind you. "Can you handle another?"

You turned around to see Hotch behind you. Shit. And, though he didn't mean it in any way, you couldn't help but groan internally at the sexual innuendo you managed to warp his words into. "Um, of course, I'd be happy to get you one!" You smiled and requested from the bartender, "Three leather and laces, please!"

"Whisky and peach schnapps? I should have expected that," Rossi said, grinning. He brought a hand up to shake your shoulder lightly. Rossi was great to you, a father figure when you felt like yours was nonexistent. "It fits you."

You shrugged. "A little sweet, a little harsh: what else could you expect?" Surprisingly, you felt Hotch laugh beside you. "Sir?" You looked at him with a quirk of your lips, probably a side effect from the wine you and Prentiss had drank before the bar.

Hotch looked at you with crinkles around his eyes. "It fits."

You internally groaned. His eyes were so expressive, and when he smiled, the crow's feet just added to his allure. You shook your head minutely. "I wouldn't have taken you for a shot man, Boss."

Hotch shrugged. "If Rossi can take them, I figure I can let loose, too."

"Here you are!" The bartender set three shots in front of you. "Now whose tab should I put these on?"

"Mi—"

"Mine," You hear Hotch say quickly, nodding his head slightly.

"Hotch, I was going to pay for these!"

He chuckled. "It's not a problem, Y/N. If anyone should be paying for these, it's Rossi."

Rossi held up his hands. "Hey! You two got in there too fast! What was I supposed to do?"

You laughed and held up your shot. "To the team!"

"To the team," they said, but as you took your two gulps of the shot, you felt someone's gaze on your cheek. You blushed hotly, but shook your head after the last gulp.

"Ugh!" you groaned. "Maybe two shots in a row was a bad idea."

"Let's go back to our booth," Hotch said easily, helping you off the barstool.

Oh, Hotch. You couldn't deny it; you were attracted to your Unit Chief. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes and a darker voice. He filled his suits quite well, you had to say, the broad shoulders exuding dominance, thighs strong. But here, in the bar, the suit jacket was gone. He had his sleeves rolled up, forearms on display as you sat down at the booth, swaying a little.

"Are you alright?" he asked as you nearly brushed his shoulder, laughing as you righted yourself.

"Oh, I'm just fine," you said, delving into vocal fry. Rossi raised his eyebrows across from you.

"Are you sure? You're sitting at the table with two old men while the rest of the team is having fun." You looked around. Penelope, Morgan and Prentiss were on the dance floor, JJ was playing darts, and Reid was sitting with a small group of people playing trivia.

You looked at Rossi, then Hotch, eyes warm. "I'm exactly where I need to be." You sipped at Reid's wine that he left on the table.

You weren't stupid; you knew nothing would really come from your crush on your boss. You were his junior by at least a decade, and you felt sorely like the weakest link when it came to attractiveness in the BAU. You were brash and bold, probably not attractive to an alpha male like Aaron Hotchner, anyway. You accepted this, however, and resolved to have a few more drinks.

—

An hour later, you were drunk. You didn't want to admit it, but Rossi's eyes were meeting in the middle of his forehead. You had finished Reid's wine, to his surprisingly acceptance once you said you would bake for him, and had ordered another two drinks. You ordered another gin and tonic from the waiter, him raising his eyebrows when you asked.

"Shut up," you said. "It's a Friday."

Rossi laughed, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "You sure you're ok, Y/N?"

"I'm fine!" you exclaimed, grabbing the gin and tonic from the waiter quickly. "It's a weekend, after all."

Rossi threw up his hands once more. "If you're sure. I'm about to leave, so I just wanted to make sure you were ok."

"I'm fine," you said, nodding emphatically. "My apartment isn't far away. I can handle the walk."

Rossi made eye contact with Hotch silently, something unspoken between them. You found it strange. "I'm sure you'll be fine," Rossi said, patting your shoulder once he got up from the booth. "Let me know if you need anything tomorrow, ok?"

"Sure thing." You squinted an eye at Hotch as Rossi left. "What are you looking at Rossi like that for?"

"What?" Hotch minutely shook his head. "I'm just seeing Rossi off."

"Mmm hmm." You took a long sip of your drink. He took a long sip of his beer. You looked at him, then looked back at your drink. This was ridiculous. Hotch was an older man with a son. You were younger than Reid, but not nearly as intelligent. You were just an observant girl with a few too many drinks in her. You looked around the bar to see where the other members of the team were, but they looked enraptured in their activities. You looked down at the table and grabbed your drink.

"I'm about to leave," you murmured, draining your glass. "I need to go to bed." The earlier shots of the night were pressing against your skull.

"Let's make sure your tabs are closed up," Hotch said, taking the glass away from you as you nodded toward his direction. He noticed your change in demeanor and furrowed his brow.

After you had gotten your card back, you walked outside with Hotch following. "Thanks for taking care of me, sir, but I have it from here." This wasn't your first time walking home intoxicated, after all. You could take care of yourself; college had taught you that.

Hotch shook his head. "You/re too drunk to walk home alone. Let me drive you."

Immediately you shook your head, your memories of your time in college blurring in your mind. The alcohol had your brain fuzzy, and although you trusted Hotch — had to, really, to work with the BAU — you hadn't known him long enough for car rides. "No, no, no, I'm fine. I can walk." You turned away from him. "I'll see you Monday."

Hotch's forehead creased further; your defensiveness was so obvious. The alcohol was impacting you more than your slurred words let on. What had happened?

"Can I walk with you?" he asked softly, reaching out to touch your upper arm. "You're intoxicated, Y/N. I just want to make sure you're safe."

You felt your arm twitch away minutely, but nodded. He had a point, after all. You were drunk. "You can walk with me."

As you started walking, Hotch beside you, you tripped over your wedges. Hotch grabbed you before you fell, righting you. "Are you ok?" He was soft and quiet, his voice a low baritone. He was sure to keep his voice soft and only touched you to make sure you didn't hurt yourself.

"I'm fine," you whispered shakily, jerking away from him. He let you, staying a few inches behind in case you fell…

…which of course you did, face first, into the sidewalk two feet from your apartment. Hotch reached to you to upright you, but you swatted away his hands.

"NO." You leaned on the pavement on all fours as you caught your breath. "I can do this." You stood up slowly, wobbling and catching the nearby staircase to steady you. "I'm fine. I just need to get home and then you can leave." You were so frustrated with yourself; you just wanted to be alone. How could such a fun night end so badly?

You always did manage to fuck it up.

Hotch frowned as you pulled yourself up. "Can I do anything to help?" he murmured softly, following behind you to our ground floor apartment. You searched in your purse for your keys. Not being able to find them, you groaned and bit your lip to contain its trembling. "Let me help you here." He dipped his fingers into your bag, finding the keys easily and unlocking your door. You stumbled in, snatching your keys from the door, throwing them on a small table with a vase of dried flowers.

You took your shoes off as Hotch called, "Y/N?" from outside the door. You glanced toward him, jerking your head inside, and he came in swiftly, looking around your apartment. It was quaint, bookshelves stuffed to the brim and strange paintings on every wall. You ignored him, going straight for the fridge.

"Y/N? What are you doing?"

You groaned. _Get out of my house._ "Come in the kitchen."

The kitchen was nice. You had a stand mixer on the counter, as well as a blender and toaster. But the most prevalent thing was your wine rack, full. You had opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, quickly pouring as much wine as possible into a wine glass. "You want any?" you said harshly.

"No, no, stop." Hotch came over toward you and lifted the bottle from the pour. "Let's talk."

You glared at him angrily. "What do we need to talk about?"

He touched your elbow lightly, but you flinched away from him. "We need to talk about that," he said softly. You groaned and led him into the living room, sitting down on the couch, holding your half full wine glass.

"Why. There's nothing to talk about." You took a harsh sip of wine, the liquid making your upper lip shine.

He shook his head. "There's nothing on your file that would lead to you acting like this. I just want to understand why." He sat on the other side of the couch, arm against the back. You were acutely aware of how close his fingertips were to your shoulder, so you turned to face him, one knee up to your chest.

At that, you felt your eyes tearing up. You leaned your head back, willing the tears to disappear. "Everyone has secrets, Agent Hotchner. Everyone has scars."

You knew he wasn't stupid. It was psych 101, your drunken response to touch. You could always handle it better when your were sober, but when you were drunk, the PTSD was too loud, too close. "I know you have an idea. Tell me, what do you think?"

He shook his head, taking your wine glass from your grasp. You hadn't realized, but you were shaking, the wine sloshing out of the glass. "I'm not profiling you right now. I just want to help you."

You scoffed. "Why do you want to help me, SSA Hotchner? I'm just a member of your team." You held your hands to your cheeks, pushing up to stop the tears. "A new one at that. I'm disposable." You were looking at the ceiling, flashbacks of popcorn ceiling in college flashing in front of your eyes. "Nothing worth saving."

He grabbed a hand. "No," he said softly, voice hushed. You looked at him, eyes wet and mascara beginning to run. His eyes held such… sympathy, it make your throat close up.

"You're not just an agent of my team," he murmured, rubbing his thumb over your hand. "You're not disposable, you're not 'nothing worth saving.' I don't know who made you feel that way. I don't know what happened to you to make you feel that way. But it's not true."

You couldn't look at him, eyes trained on that thumb, his hand. His grip was loose; you could have easily removed your hand, but this touch didn't feel so tight, so harsh. It was calm, and caring, and it felt you with a soft sort of heat.

"How can you be so sure?" you said in a whisper, not even meaning the words to come out audibly. "You don't even know me."

"Hey, look at me." He brought his other hand to your chin, gently raising your gaze to his. His eyes were warm, and caring, and you suddenly felt foolish for even asking."You are a person. You are a woman. You have your own story. Somehow, the BAU fits into that story." His hand gently gripped your hand. "Somehow, I fit into that story."

The hand on your chin wiped at the sticky tears drying on your cheeks, one cheek at a time. "I will never press you about what happened to you," he said, his hand falling into his lap as you clutched as his other one in a death grip. "But I am always here to listen, and to help."

"Can you do something for me now?" you said in a croak from your tears.

He nodded. "Of course."

You took a breath. "Can you stay at my apartment tonight?" At his confused look, you gulped and said quietly, "Sometimes after drinking too much, m-my depression gets worse. Sometimes I want to—" you looked away quickly "—hurt myself. If someone stays in the apartment with me, I'll be too ashamed to do it."

He removed his hand from your grasp gently. Well, fuck. He was going to think you insane, going to ask how you passed your psych evals, ask you to leave the team—

His lips pressed against your forehead, dry and chaste. "Of course," he murmured against your skin. "Of course."

And, finally, you felt your tense body melt, leaning into this man, letting him wrap his arms around your shaking shoulders.

You didn't have to hold this burden alone.


End file.
